Brooke Myers POV

The rain had intensified, lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Penthouse with a violence that matched the storm inside my chest.

I punched the code into the keypad. The light flashed green. He hadn't changed it yet. Arrogance, pure and simple. He thought I was too broken to ever come back.

The apartment was silent, submerged in a heavy, suffocating stillness. It smelled of the climate-controlled chill and the lingering, cloying scent of Caleb's cologne-sandalwood and betrayal.

I walked into the living room.

It felt like a museum dedicated to a life that had been extinguished. The photos on the mantle, freezing us in a happiness that was now a lie. The cashmere throw we had bought in Aspen, draped over the sofa. A half-empty bottle of wine sitting on the counter, as if waiting for a toast that would never come.

But I didn't have time to mourn.

I moved quickly, heading straight for the server room at the back of the office. My hands didn't shake as I pulled the hard drives from the rack, stuffing them into my waterproof bag. These drives contained the metadata, the undeniable proof of ownership for the Apex System. They were my leverage, and my lifeline.

I moved to the bedroom to pack a bag. Just the essentials. I needed to be a ghost.

I threw open the closet doors.

My clothes had been shoved aggressively to one side. In their place, Krystal's cheap, flashy dresses hung in my space, claiming territory that wasn't hers.

I grabbed a suitcase and started throwing things in-jeans, sweaters, anything I could reach.

Then I saw it.

On the top shelf, hidden behind a stack of winter woolens. A shoe box labeled "Legacy."

I pulled it down, the cardboard cool against my fingertips.

Inside, nestling in tissue paper, was a burner phone.

I knew Caleb had secrets. In this life, everyone had secrets. But a burner phone in a box labeled "Legacy"? That was specific. That was calculated.

I turned it on. I knew the passcode immediately. It was his birthday. Narcissist.

The messages loaded, a stream of blue bubbles.

They were all from a number saved simply as "K."

I scrolled back. Three months. Six months. A year.

K: When are you going to dump the nerd?

Caleb: Soon, baby. I just need the code to be finished.

K: She's getting suspicious.

Caleb: Let her be suspicious. She's too in love to see straight.

K: What about the brat?

Caleb: The incubator? Don't worry. Once the deal is signed, I'll cut her loose. The kid can go to boarding school in Switzerland. You'll be the mother.

The incubator.

The word hung in the stale air, heavy and suffocating. It wrapped around my throat.

He hadn't just cheated. He had harvested me. He had used my body to grow his heir and my brain to build his empire, planning to discard the husk the moment he had extracted what he needed.

I felt the bile rise, hot and acidic. I ran to the bathroom, collapsing over the toilet, and vomited until there was nothing left but dry heaves.

I sat back on the cold tile floor, clutching the phone like a lifeline, or a weapon.

The tears finally came. Not soft, cinematic tears. Ugly, heaving sobs that tore at my chest and echoed off the marble walls.

I had loved a ghost. I had built a life on a foundation of rot.

Slowly, the sobbing stopped. The pain didn't leave, but it crystallized into something harder. Something sharper.

I wiped my face.

I stood up.

I forwarded every single text message to my encrypted cloud server. Then, for good measure, I sent a copy to Easton's secure drop box.

I walked back into the bedroom.

I picked up my favorite lipstick from the vanity-a deep, blood red. I uncapped it and walked to the portrait of Caleb that hung arrogantly over the bed.

With a steady hand, I drew a target right on his forehead.

Then, the silence was shattered.

The electronic chirp of the front door.

My heart stopped.

"Babe?" Caleb's voice echoed from the hallway, casual, confident. "Why are the lights on?"

"Probably the cleaning lady," Krystal's voice, shrill and close.

I froze.

I was trapped.

Brooke Myers POV

I tried to make it to the back exit, my heart hammering against my ribs, but they were already in the living room.

Caleb stopped dead when he saw me. He was holding a pizza box, of all things-a mundane prop in a nightmare scenario. Krystal was clinging to his arm, radiating a smug satisfaction that made my stomach turn.

"Brooke," Caleb said. His voice was smooth, layered with a practiced, synthetic warmth. "I thought you were at your mother's."

"I came for my things," I said. My hand gripped the handle of my suitcase so hard my knuckles turned white.

Krystal eyed the bag.

"Make sure she didn't take the silver," she sneered.

"Shut up, Krystal," I snapped.

Caleb stepped forward, setting the pizza box down on the entry table with deliberate slowness.

"Let's not be dramatic," he said. "We can work something out. A severance package."

"I saw the phone, Caleb," I said, cutting through his negotiation.

His face went blank. The charm evaporated, replaced by the cold, dead look of a shark scenting blood.

"What phone?"

"The one in the Legacy box," I said, my voice trembling despite my best efforts. "The incubator. That's what you called me."

Krystal laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. "Well, if the shoe fits."

Caleb lunged.

He was faster than I expected. He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging cruelly into my existing bruise.

"Give me the phone," he snarled.

"I don't have it," I lied, forcing defiance into my tone. "I uploaded everything."

"You bitch!" Krystal screamed. She ran at me, raking her nails down my face in a blind fury.

I shoved her back with everything I had. She stumbled and fell onto the couch.

"Get her!" Krystal shrieked, scrambling to sit up. "She's going to ruin everything!"

Caleb grabbed me by the hair, yanking my head back. He dragged me toward the office.

"You're going to fix the code," he said, his breath hot and wet on my ear. "And then you're going to delete those messages."

"No!" I screamed. I clawed at his hands, my nails tearing at his skin, but he was too strong.

He dragged me to the Panic Room. It was a reinforced steel vault built into the wall of the office, intended to store cash and servers, not people.

"Cool off," he said.

He threw me inside.

I hit the floor hard. My hip slammed against the concrete, sending a shockwave of pain up my spine.

"Caleb, no!" I screamed, rolling onto my knees. "The baby!"

He paused for a second. His hand hovered over the keypad.

"The baby is fine," he said, his voice devoid of humanity. "You're just being hysterical."

He slammed the heavy steel door.

The lock engaged with a deafening thud.

Darkness swallowed me whole.

"Caleb!" I pounded on the door until my palms burned. "Caleb, please! I'm bleeding!"

Silence.

I slid down the cold metal door, my legs giving out.

The pain in my stomach exploded. It wasn't a cramp anymore. It was a tearing sensation, like something was being ripped away from the inside, violent and absolute.

I felt the warmth gush between my legs.

I reached down, my trembling fingers brushing against damp denim. My hand came back wet and sticky.

"Help," I whispered, the word barely a breath.

The air in the vault was cold. Recycled. Dead.

I curled into a ball on the floor, wrapping my arms around my empty stomach.

I was alone.

The darkness felt heavy, like it was pressing the life out of me.

I thought about the nursery I had designed. The yellow paint. The crib waiting in the corner.

I felt another wave of pain, sharper this time, a jagged knife twisting inside me.

I screamed, but the sound died in the soundproof room, unheard by anyone who mattered.

My consciousness started to drift. The cold was seeping into my bones, numbing the agony.

I closed my eyes.

And then, I felt nothing at all.